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Chapter 95: A Dragon's House Restored
Daeron Targaryen's perspective.
The Red Keep was not silent.
It breathed with life and vigour.
The courtyards bustled with activity as banners bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen unfurled from every tower. Servants rushed through the stone halls, their steps quick and eyes alert, polishing, sweeping, preparing chambers for the newly arrived Royal family. Gold cloaks stood straighter at their posts. Even the air carried the scent of fresh beginnings—of lemon oil and lavender from hastily cleaned chambers, of smoke from newly lit hearths, and the faint tang of sea wind drifting through open windows.
Daeron stood in the Hand's Tower—his tower for now—looking out through the tall windows at the city sprawled beneath the Red Keep. He is not yet used to his recently forged crown yet, but power already rested heavy on his shoulders.
He didn't say it aloud, but he felt it: this wasn't just a victory. It was a return for their house.
Behind him, Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy stood in quiet discussion about the new patrol arrangements. Uncle Ned had taken Robb and Ser Brynden to inspect the city's gates. Viserys had already vanished somewhere inside the Keep, likely chasing shadows or ghosts of his youth.
And Rhaella—Rhaella had retired to the Queen's solar, with Daenerys in tow.
Daeron glanced toward the solar.
He knew his grandmother needed this moment, this place. The Red Keep had taken so much from her. Now, it offered a second chance.
He stepped away from the window.
"I'll leave you to it," he said to Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur. "Make sure the guards rotate every six hours. No complacency."
Both men bowed, and Daeron left them behind.
The corridors of the Keep were lined with memories. Some Daeron recognized from stories. Some he saw in the eyes of others. The older servants would pause as he passed—some with awe, others with unease. They had seen dragons once before. And they had seen them fall.
Now, they walked among the ashes, hoping this dragon would be different.
Rhaella Targaryen's perspective.
Rhaella stood in the Queen's solar, her fingers running gently over the edge of a carved table she had once sat at, long ago. The chamber had been cleaned and polished, but the cracks in the wood remained—small reminders of time that no scrubbing could erase.
Behind her, Daenerys walked through the room like a child in a dream. She touched the curtains, examined the tall bookshelves, and stood silently at the hearth as if trying to imagine what this place might mean to her.
"Is this where you lived?" Daenerys asked quietly.
Rhaella turned. "It was. I spent many years here."
Daenerys nodded, then walked toward the balcony, where she stared out over the training yard below.
"I feel like I'm walking through someone else's memories," Daenerys said, not turning around.
"You are," Rhaella replied. "But soon, you'll make your own."
She stepped beside her daughter and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"This castle is stone and mortar," she said. "But it can be shaped. What matters is the people within it. What we build now."
Daenerys smiled faintly. "Then let's make it ours."
Rhaella's heart warmed at that. Yes, she thought. Let's.
Daeron Targaryen's perspective
By late afternoon, the royal family gathered in the Great Hall.
Not for ceremony. Not yet. Just a moment of stillness.
Daeron stood at the foot of the Iron Throne, staring up at it. The swords, twisted and blackened by time, looked less like a seat of power and more like a monument to every man who had bled for it.
Rhaella stood beside him. Viserys behind. Daenerys to the other side. Robb, Grey Wind and Ned entered a moment later with Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan. Ghost padded silently to Daeron's side and sat.
The Iron Throne looked cursed, the thought came to Daeron's mind. How many kings had died on it, he wondered
Daeron didn't know the answer. He walked slowly toward the throne, then stopped before the iron steps.
Why would anyone go to such lengths—lie, kill, burn the world—just to sit on this throne? Daeron stared at the jagged iron, each blade a memory of conquest, each step a whisper of betrayal. Was it power they craved, or the illusion of control? He had seen what the throne did to men: how it twisted their hearts, made them mad, cruel. And still, they came. Still, they bled for it. He couldn't help but wonder—was it the throne that was cursed, or the people who desired it?
Daeron looked around, taking in the throne room. I can't change what this place has been, he thought. But I can decide what it becomes.
He turned and looked to Daenerys and Robb, then to Rhaella. Finally to his uncle Ned, whose silent nod said more than words.
Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan stood in solemn silence, like statues of honor carved in white steel—ever watchful, ever loyal, as true Kingsguards were meant to be.
He would not rule with madness or cruelty. Not use fire for its own sake. He would build something better. And he would not stand alone; they were with him, steadfast and resolute, every step of the way.
Daeron turned back to the throne and let out a quiet breath.
Not yet, he thought. I'll sit when it's earned.
He stepped down and motioned to the others.
"Come," he said. "Let's begin."